


For Love, For Country

by hablikseesthestars



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Backstory, First Love, Football | Soccer, Friends to Lovers, Historical, M/M, Nonsense, Slow Burn, World War I, guys i'm learning about sports for you i hope you appreciate it, why is no one else doing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 01:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hablikseesthestars/pseuds/hablikseesthestars
Summary: The year is 1909, and a young Ambrose Spellman has been dragged by his so-called chums to a *gasp* football game, of all things. Fully expecting to loathe the experience, he is instead surprisingly drawn to a young player of both exceptional skill and (dare he say it) beauty. Walter Tull. You’re welcome for the historical-crossover that nobody asked for and everyone is confused by.





	For Love, For Country

**Author's Note:**

> I refuse to explain myself.

Looking back, which he really tried not to do, there hadn’t really been any indication of what was to come. But surely there must have been some sign, a moment, a glimpse of the future that was to set upon him. _Thrust_ upon him.

Ambrose smirked to himself, staring out of the rain-spattered window, lost in thought. Another lonely day in- what was it now? 1993? 1994? He had lost track, to be perfectly honest. Every day felt like a shadow of the waking world. He wandered room to room, clad only in the softest, loosest, silkiest fabrics as if ready to escape into sleep at any given moment.

But that he could. What he would give to fall asleep, to wake up in his arms again, soft kisses trailing up his jaw until - no.

Ambrose shut his eyes and let his head fall back against the cool wall, hugging his knees close to his chest. He mustn’t let himself want again. It had been half a century. It was time to let go.

But first, before he did, he would allow himself one final indulgence. One last resurrection before he let the dead lie. One last time, he would remember everything, before he forced himself to forget.

——————————————-

_White Hart Lane, September 1909_

“Oy! Ambrose will you quit your whingeing and get on with it?!”

Ambrose sighed and shut his textbook with a little more force than was strictly necessary. True, it has been _one more page_ about twenty pages ago, but who was Ichabod to stop his education right in it’s tracks? Oh who was he kidding, Ichabod was _exactly_ the type to stop all manner of intelligent thought right in it’s tracks, let alone that which leaned towards the educational.

“Icky, if you persist in this behaviour I _will_ put a hex on you again, I swear on the cape of darkness.”

“Right, like you even _could!_ ”

What a twat. Ambrose narrowed his eyes and stood up suddenly, revelling in the sizeable twitch it produced in Ichabod’s person. The rest of the lads laughed. And they were _lads_. All pushing and shoving and screeching lewd comments. Ambrose tired of their company, but hanging out with women all the time had earned him a certain _reputation_. Not undeserved, but not altogether pleasant for a black man in the 1900s. The witching world might be more progressive in some regards, but the rest of the big blue ball had a ways to go.

“Ambrose, mate! Leave poor Icky be, go on! We’re going to be late!”

“Oh no. Late. For a three-hour sporting event. Heavens. What will we do.”

Noam laughed his full-throated laugh that made Ambrose stare at his open mouth. Why did he do that? Sometimes when he was around men, Ambrose felt so strange. There would be a small twinge in his chest, or the hairs on his arms would stand, or he would find himself staring a little too long. At first, he had been sure he was just unsettled by white people, but now Ambrose was concerned that it was something _else_. He was beginning to think he was a little bit of a-

“Fairy boy! You on?”

Gregory. _Why_ he had been invited was beyond Ambrose. He gritted his teeth. “Right then, let’s go.”

The lads cheered and whooped, practically running for the stadium. Ambrose trudged along after them. If he walked slowly enough, but also played his cards right, he would end up seated at the end of the crew beside Noam. That would be alright, Noam wouldn’t bother him if he started daydreaming or reading or flirting with unsuspecting persons.

They had kissed once. He wasn’t sure if Noam remembered, though. If he did he was certainly doing an excellent job of repressing it. They had both been quite drunk and frigid on New Year’s Eve, huddled in blankets outside to watch the fireworks. Ambrose had just recently lost his parents to witch hunters, and in the middle of blubbering to Noam it had just _happened_.

Noam had wiped a single tear off his cheek, then dragged the salty liquid over his lips, Ambrose’s heart racing the whole time. He had then slurred ‘you’re almost s’pretty as a girl’, and then they were kissing, right up until Ambrose had moaned in his mouth like the slutty _imbecile_ that he was and Noam had broken the kiss with a chuckle and a ‘poofter’. The thought of it still brought heat to his cheeks.

 _No!_ Ambrose thought. He would not be ashamed! They were _warlocks_ for Satan’s sake! Ambrose knew there were other men like him, even some that were among the non-magic folk. But they were few and far between, so for the time being he was forced to carry on as things stood. Or rather, sat. Specifically beside friends he had heatedly snogged in the not-too-distant past.

The crowd in the stadium was deafening. Somehow (probably through some ill-gotten means), Gregory had managed to get the group right near the edge of the grounds. They were behind the Tottenham bench, and Ambrose could practically see the sweat rolling down those tight-

Perhaps he should return to his studies. And he was about to, he _really_ was, but then someone caught his eye. He was - but he couldn’t be. Was he-?

Noam noticed him staring. “He’s a new player, he is.”

“He’s black!” Ambrose blurted out.

“Well spotted, Rose. His name’s Walter Tull.”

“Walter.” Ambrose whispered to himself, and as if he had shouted or summoned his attention, Walter turned and they locked eyes.

It felt as if the world had become slow-motion. Walter grinned at Ambrose, who felt weak and stared at his broad shoulders as he turned and stretched. The tall man lifted his arms above his head and Ambrose felt a lurch in his stomach as the movement revealed a strip of skin. Oh gods below. Ambrose had to meet him.


End file.
